


The Science of Decomposition

by TheWhiteLily



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2016 [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: For Science John, Gen, Humour, Ickiness, Poor John, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7480851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteLily/pseuds/TheWhiteLily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's just trying to eat his dinner here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Decomposition

**Author's Note:**

> For the Watson's Woes July 13th prompt: Nature is red in tooth and claw.

“Sherlock, do you _have_ to do that at the table?”

“They’re perfectly hygienic,” huffed Sherlock.  “Medical grade.  Bred in a laboratory for treatment of gangrenous wounds, in fact.  They eat the dead flesh away without touching the living tissue, it’s really quite miraculous—and it means they're generally considered a very reliable indicator of time since death.  Isolating the factors involved in the decomposition process is important work, John!”

“It’s revolting!”

“You’re dreadfully squeamish for a doctor.  It’s as though you’ve completely blocked out all the dead bodies you carved up along the way.”

“Not usually while I was eating!” snapped John, and swallowed his mouthful with some difficulty.  “And never with maggots, Sherlock.  _Maggots!_   I’m trying to eat my dinner, here!”

“Well, so are they.”

Doggedly, John took another bite.  Sherlock might not want to eat today, fine, no one could make him, but John wasn’t going to be put off his meal no matter _what_ the other man tried.  They didn’t have a case at the moment—John needed to get his calories in while he could, before Sherlock went back to pulling him away from every half-eaten plate to rush off after criminals.

“Yes, I can see they are,” said John accusingly.  “Trying to eat _your dinner_ , that is.  When you said you’d have a chop at the table with me if I was cooking, Sherlock, I was actually expecting _you_ to eat it, not sit across from me while you passed it on to your hungry little friends!”

“I’m not going to waste the fingers on them,” scoffed Sherlock.  “Not until I’ve completed the first round of lifecycle observations.  I would have thought you’d have more respect for the remains of the deceased than that—it’s not like there’s an _unlimited_ supply of human body parts.  Pork is a perfectly acceptable analogue for human flesh.  Similar texture, water content, salinity, muscle composition, iron levels…  And according to all reports, the taste is rather—”

“ _Sherlock_!”

John put his knife and fork down and stared at his half-eaten chop, revolted.  Across the table, the contents of the plastic tub seethed over the other chop.

“Really, John,” shrugged Sherlock dismissively, “they’re not the only ones who’ve been eating a days-old dead body.  It’s nature, John.  Everything gets eaten in the end, by something.  You can’t blame other creatures for doing the same thing as you.”

“I can if they’re doing it at the dinner table right in front of me!”

There was silence for a moment, as John examined his plate with grim determination.  Then he sighed, and pushed it away. 

“All right, Sherlock,” he said.  “You win.  Take the chop.”

“Oh!” said Sherlock, in feigned surprise.  “Are you not going to eat that, John?  Because the subjects of tub four haven’t …”

“Don’t push it, Sherlock,” scowled John.  “Just take them away, and feed them somewhere else.   _Not_  my bedroom," he clarified hastily, wise to Sherlock by now.  "I’m assuming I’ll be safe to eat my potatoes and peas without harassment?  You haven’t got any weevils or caterpillars pining away, desperate to eat your flatmate’s vegetables out from under him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” said Sherlock, picking up John's chop by the bone and lowering it carefully into what was apparently tub four.  John closed his eyes too late to stop himself seeing the way the maggots surged up to meet it.  “There's barely any caterpillars relevant to the progression of putrefaction; they prefer living leaves.  And the compost beetles won't arrive until _tomorrow's_ mail.”

Shielding his eyes from the horror show opposite, John glared at the unappetising remains of his plate.  It looked like it was going to be a good week to be doing a _lot_ of eating out.


End file.
